


The Precipice of Confession

by SaxSpieler



Series: Verǫld Vǫrðr [4]
Category: Runescape
Genre: Ali tries to be a psychotherapist, Branding, Gen, Scars, Unpleasant memories, but he still gives the alcoholic more alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 13:04:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12343242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaxSpieler/pseuds/SaxSpieler
Summary: In which Finley has her grammar corrected, is told she smells terrible, takes a bath, and then attends a alcohol-infused psychotherapy session given by Dr. Wise, tax planner and part-time surgeon.





	The Precipice of Confession

**Author's Note:**

> Direct sequel to "Thanks for the Surgery." Huge thanks to Laeti for pre-posting editing!

“Oi, Ali. Can I ask you a question?”

“I’m not sure if you _can,_ but you may.”

“Right...ah-” Finley tied off the fresh bandage around Adrius’ leg, patting his knee reassuringly once she was finished. “When I hugged you, after you pulled the cactus spines from Adrius’ leg, you flinched.”

She watched as Ali tapped his sheaf of papers - tax documents, he had called them - against his desk, his back turned to her.

“That wasn’t a question, Finley,” he said finally, barely glancing over his shoulder.

“Oh,” she coughed, cuffing the side of her head in annoyance. “Right. I guess I just wanted to know...why? Did I hug too tightly? Did I poke an old injury? Do you just not like hugs?”

He turned around fully, turning the sheaf over and over in his hands. She thought she saw something in his face - a sort of distant tightness as if he was remembering something unpleasant. However, in the next minute it was gone, replaced by his usual ironed-out expression of constant fatigue and exasperation.

“Finley,” he sighed. 

“Aye?” 

“It’s time I told you something important. Something I’ve been keeping from you for too long, now.”

“And what’s that?” She stood, leaning forward expectantly - whatever Ali had to say, it was likely to be poignant and world-changing, and she wanted to hear every word of it.

Ali drew in a breath, the edges of his mouth quirking upwards.

“You smell worse than an overcrowded camel barn.”

“Aye... _what?!?”_

“You reek, put simply. I understand that your errands and my requests keep you and Adrius from having a significant amount of free time nowadays, but personal hygiene, let alone bathing once in a decade, should not fall by the wayside as it has for you.” His eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her. “And frankly, I’m surprised - all records indicate that the various Fremennik tribes throughout history kept a very high standard of hygiene. I doubt your ancestors would be pleased by your flippant disregard for personal upkeep.”

Shifting uncomfortably in place, Finley scratched the back of her neck and scowled. 

They were hardly flippant, the reasons for her lapses in self-care, deep-seated as they were. Bathing hadn’t been terribly high on the priority list for a fair chunk of her life.

Sailing on the raiding ships, where clean water and soap were luxuries, only serving to slow the journey with unnecessary weight. 

Clearing out basilisk nests deep underground, the ossified, hollowed-out, and still half-living bodies of unfortunate spelunkers serving as egg incubators, where anything not smelling of rotted flesh and mud would alert the beasts to their presence immediately. 

Sleeping in a hastily-dug shelter deep in the mud flats of Lunar Isle, hiding from both the patrolling Suqah and the less-than-hospitable Moon Clan before their truce was forged.

Wading through putrid blood to carve the next Daggermouth to pieces.

Drinking herself half to death in her own bed. 

And - _Ali was correct_ \- it hadn’t been a high priority since, old habits being damnably hard to crush.

Yet, Ali didn’t know. Couldn’t know, unless he was one of those mind-readers like Odd Peer in Southern Rellekka or the Oneiromancer of Lunar Isle.

_Or was he?_

She shut down the thought. Ali was a face-reader, not a mind-reader.

Dropping her arm to her side, she continued to pick Ali’s mind.

“So, is that why-”

Ali nodded.

“That’s why I flinched, Finley. And that is why I will continue to do so if you insist on showering me in physical demonstrations of gratitude every time I have to patch Adrius up.”

“Ah...well…”

“So, I’ve taken the liberty of giving you two the day off,” he said crisply, placing the sheaf on his desk and retrieving a small satchel that Finley had never noticed before from under the bed. “Go down to the river, scrub every bit of dirt from yourself, and _shave._ Don’t come back until you smell presentable enough for a visit to the desert gods themselves.”

With that, he tossed the satchel to Finley, who caught it and peeked inside. 

Soap.

A shaving razor.

Combs and scissors.

An odd, lightweight stone with a rough texture.

A small, hooked pick and a metal file.

Tweezers that could have come from Ali’s surgical supplies.

“Adrius, go with her and make sure she adequately bathes.” Ali sat at his desk, flipping open the sheaf of tax documents and setting out individual sheets. With a wave of his hand, he motioned them to the door. “Try not to get too sunburnt, either.”

***

“Make sure to get all the nooks and crannies, Fin,” Adrius called, adjusting the towel he was currently using as a source of shade. Finley, in return, splashed him with a handful of river water before returning to scrubbing her soaped-up forearms with the rough stone, sending him tumbling backwards with a laugh.

Sitting back up and dipping his bare feet - which already showed the first signs of sunburn - into the clear waters of the Elid, he watched her bathe. Though she didn’t make a show of it, there was something captivating about the water trickling over her tattooed skin in the wake of her hands, almost delicately tracing every muscle as it fell back to the river.

He’d seen her like this many times before - bare and damp. It wasn’t an alien sight to him anymore. Yet now, there was nothing strenuous distracting him from just observing, from trying to decipher the blue-ink designs.

Knots and circles. Glyphs and animal-like figures. Runes in a foreign language, a script that he couldn’t understand - perhaps he’d ask Ali later if he knew what they meant, if the question of _‘what do the tattoos on Finley’s back say, Ali, if you’ve seen them?’_ wasn’t too awkward for polite conversation.

As most times, however, his eyes were drawn away from the tattoos and to what was under, over, and around them.

Scars. Burns. Dents in flesh.

She had told him about most of them of her own volition.

The gash in her left calf and the ring of punctures in her right - the product of one ‘General Khazard’s’ sword and his hellhound’s fangs. 

The neat slice across her collarbone - from training with someone named Koschei. 

The scarred over cuts and scrapes nearly everywhere else - ‘you don’t go on a raid and come back in one piece,’ she had said. 

The trail of puckered keloids across her right shoulder that was usually covered by her braids but now visible as she ran lathered hands through her hair - an accident with a blunt axe, though her voice had faltered on that word.

_‘Accident.’_

Then, there were others that she wouldn’t talk about, the origins of which she’d handwave away with yet another platitude about the aggressiveness of Fremennik culture or a mumbled ‘accident.’ Smaller ones, littered across her back and her arms. Even on her skull, hidden by her hair - Adrius had felt them himself. And, as he had ran his fingers over them, he couldn’t have helped but notice that they were the perfect size to have been possibly made by sharpened fingernails. 

And then there was _that brand._

Poorly healed, surrounded by a forest of pitted skin, and in the shape of a grinning skull, it sat in the center of her chest, just below her collarbone. 

Adrius had seen similar things before. On cattle. 

This one was worse. Deeper. Previously infected, from the looks of it. 

The thing stared him down each time Finley straddled him, and now, as she sat on a rock in the river and began buffing the callouses on her feet, he stared right back. It scared him, disgusted him even, and yet, he desperately wanted an explanation for its existence. 

He mentally smacked himself. 

_Don’t stare, it’s rude._

Yet, curiosity drove his tongue.

_And don’t ask, that’s even ruder-_

“Hey, Finley?”

_You’d better shut up now, Adrius._

“Aye?” she replied, not looking up.

_SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!_

“I...you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I’m just curious, is all.”

Her brow furrowed and she finally stopped scrubbing, raising her head.

“Answer what?”

“Oh. Sorry,” he chuckled weakly, realizing that he hadn’t actually asked a question. Sighing, he took a moment to find the right words. “Right, are you ever going to tell me how you got that...that thing on your chest? The brand?”

“No.” Her face hardened, an outright snarl twisting her mouth.

_Well shit, those weren’t the right words, Adrius. Not even close. What in Saradomin’s name..._

Desperately, he tried to salvage the situation.

“I mean, I’m just curious, and-”

“Didn’t ye hear me? I said no.” Her voice was like ice - it seemed to chill the midday desert air itself.

“Fin, I-”

“Ye said it yerself,” she rumbled, bristling. “I didn’t have to answer if I didn’t bloody well want to, and I don’t want to. _So, drop it.”_

Drawing in a harsh breath, she submerged herself in the river, leaving Adrius alone to stew in his mistake and piece together her meaning.

Her demeanor just now.

The scars.

The nights she’d wake up screaming.

The jokes she’d make about being able to swing an axe before she could walk.

That brand.

The picture in his mind’s eye wasn’t a pleasant one by any stretch of the imagination.

Neither was the churning in his stomach.

Finley didn’t resurface for a good half-minute, and once she did, she faced away from him and finished bathing without another word.

He didn’t move or speak until she held out her hand, and he tossed the towel to her, feeling the sun beginning to fry his skin as soon as he did.

***

“Ah, welcome back, you two.” Having reached a satisfying stopping point for the day’s work, Ali flipped the sheaf closed. “I trust you scraped all the grime off of yourself, Finley?”

The expected cheerful response intercut with cries of pain from a sunburnt Adrius never came - the two simply shuffled inside, Finley placing herself in a chair and Adrius hobbling over to the bed.

Drumming his fingers thoughtfully, Ali studied the two. 

Finley - thankfully clean, now - sat rigidly, her face twisted in some distant grimace. Eyes too-open and hands shaking ever so slightly, she looked as if she was about to bolt through the open door at any moment.

Adrius lay on the bed, curled up on himself as if trying to disappear and decidedly facing away from Finley.

Something unpleasant had been dug up, that much was certain. Adrius had been the querent, hence his frank guilt and embarrassment, and something regarding Finley’s experiences had been the subject, by her near-panicked state.

He clicked his teeth - he was curious, mutual respecting of privacy be damned, and this particular streak would take more than a visual interrogation to satisfy. 

_Now, how to approach this,_ he wondered, gaze bouncing between his two housemates before settling on Finley at last. _Straight to the source, I suppose. Direct and candid. With perhaps a bit of Fremennik verbal flair to work past, but that’s not a problem._

“Adrius,” he began, holding the sheaf aloft. “I know you were just out in the sun risking being incinerated, but would you take these to Awusah’s house for me? The old knee’s acting up a bit.” Patting the offending joint and wincing for effect, he waved the sheaf impatiently. 

Adrius sat up, pointing to his bandaged leg and scowling.

Ali scowled back, raising an eyebrow and jabbing the sheaf once, twice, in Adrius’ direction.

Finally, Adrius rolled his eyes and huffed, easing himself off the bed and shuffling over.

“Yeah, I’ll do it,” he mumbled, snatching the sheaf out of Ali’s hand and tucking it under one arm. “Don’t complain if I take a header into the fountain on the way back, though.” 

With that, he hobbled out the front door - as soon as it had thunked back into place, Finley let her head fall into her hands and let loose a muffled shriek.  
“THAT B...BLOODY, BOILED-CARROT-HAIRED, RABBIT-HEARTED SOFT-SKIN!” she cried, nearly choking on her words. She continued to rattle off various phrases, which Ali assumed were Finley-speak for ‘inexperienced,’ ‘prying,’ and- 

He balked a bit at the last phrase - _‘squishier than over-boiled summer stew’_ \- that she uttered before she descended into all-encompassing sobs.

As she continued, he stood and selected a half-empty bottle of gin from the shelf, uncorking it and sloshing a good amount into a clean glass. Taking a sip for himself, he waited for her to quiet a bit before sliding over and tapping the glass against her shoulder.

“Here. For the nerves.”

Her hand shot out and seized the glass, nearly spilling it as she raised it to her lips and downed it in a single gulp. Having done that, she reclined back in the chair, sighing hotly.

“So,” Ali began, crossing his arms. “Do you need to run through your dictionary of incomprehensible phrases once again before we get to the root of the problem, or are you ready to talk?”

Wordlessly, she held out the empty glass, jostling it slightly.

Snorting, Ali retrieved the bottle of gin and poured another nip, turning back around just in time to see her down it again, this time in two parts.

“Your Red Delicious will be back soon,” he mumbled, re-corking the bottle. “I would suggest you speak quickly if you’re going to speak candidly.”

She needed no further prompting.

“He asks too many damned questions, the bloody, witless nit.” Staring at the ceiling, she sighed again, running the back of her hand across her forehead before letting fall back onto the arm of the chair with a bone-rattling _thunk._

“And? What, in your opinion, is wrong with that?” Ali nearly smirked at his own words. _Nothing inherently wrong with asking questions and aiming to uncover the truth of a situation, but I, of all people, should understand just how compromising the truth can be._ “The boy has an inquisitive nature, beneath the wariness that’s been seared into his skull. Something like that can serve a person well.” _Something like that can also kill a man, but that’s beside the point._

“‘S not that he’s asking questions, aye?” Her brow furrowed, and her arms came around to hug herself, as if creating a shield across her chest. “It’s the questions he’s asking.”

“Such as?”

She shot him a look, face tight but eyes searching, probing, wondering. Not a second later, however, she glanced away, one hand grasping at the collar of her tunic hesitantly.

“He wanted to know...wanted to know about some things I wasn’t really keen on remembering, aye?”

Ali felt his brow furrow, and his gaze slid to the floor. 

Before he could stop himself, he nodded.

His hand found his desk chair, and he dragged it swiftly over to where Finley sat. Spinning it around, he took a seat, arms crossed and resting on its back.

“And _why_ are you not keen on answering?”

She outright glared at him, now, lips curling back over a normally comical underbite. A moment later, however, the glare and snarl were gone, replaced by tired eyes and a listless pout.

“Adrius. He’s fresh. Unscarred. He plays at being a Temple Knight, aye, but he’s not seen any action. No war, no world-shaking strife...none of that.”

“Mhm.” Ali nodded again.

“He was asking about...something. Something that he saw.” She tugged at her collar again. “And it brought back a host of horrible keech that I didn’t bloody care to explain to him. He’s-” she paused, flinging her arms out before letting them fall back into her lap- “This is going to sound odd as a fish head sproutin’ legs, but he’s like the tree that never stops blooming, aye? The one bright, unmarred spot in the middle of a storm.” She reclined, sighed, and stared up at the ceiling. “Sounds damn selfish of me, but I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose him, don’t want him to get hurt by everything that might be still hanging on my shoulders. He’s got his own nightmares to wrestle with, anyway.”

Ali felt his fingernails scrape back and forth against the wood of the chair as he mulled that over. 

_Adrius,_ a perpetually sunburnt, fresh-out-the-training-ground, anxious, twig of a man trapped in an endless identity crisis, was _Finley’s_ source of solace.

It made complete sense to him.

“That’s hardly selfish,” he began. “You’ve been hurt - scarred, even - by the horrors in your past. And now, you’ve found someone that, while perhaps just as mangled as yourself, doesn’t carry your exact burden. You take comfort in that, but you also tread carefully, not wanting to add your burden to their own.”

Finley sat back upright, now focused on Ali.

“Yer repeatin’ what I just bloody said,” she said flatly, her glare returning.

“And yet, I came to the opposite conclusion regarding your self-perceived selfishness,” he replied just as flatly, his own eyes narrowing. “Now, you need not worry about adding your troubles to mine - I’m an aging fellow who can’t be burdened by much more at this point. If you need to get something off your chest, feel free to do so now.”

Finley’s hand went back to her collar, and she winced, eyes wide.

“How did you-” 

Ali snorted, resting his chin on his crossed arms.

“It’s a common expression. I think the Fremennik would say something to the effect of-” and he paused for a moment, switching to the rolling, almost growled Fremennik tongue- _“‘Prying the Daggermouth teeth from your flesh.’”_

“Ah. Right.” Finley pursed her lips, looking almost embarrassed, falling silent after that. Yet, her hand stayed tangled in the collar of her tunic, fingers working one of the ties back and forth idly. 

As Ali watched, a thought - a conclusion - snapped into place.

_Adrius saw something while she was bathing. Something under her clothes - something that he wouldn’t notice most other times, save when those two hang the sock on my door, of course - but something he wouldn’t ask about until an opportune moment such as then, when there was nothing to distract him. Something on her chest. Something unpleasant, or the results of such._

His own hand went to his scarf, fingers working the worn fabric just as Finley’s did her tunic ties, and the marred skin hidden beneath, too marred for thaumaturgical mending, seemed to prickle in response.

_“‘Show me,’”_ he murmured in the Fremennik tongue, Finley’s eyes meeting his. _“‘If you wish.’”_

Finley looked away, brow furrowing. After some hesitation, she shut her eyes and unlaced the top part of her tunic, pulling it down slightly to expose-

Ali’s jaw clenched and he felt himself bristle at what he saw there, seared into the center of Finley’s chest.

_A slave brand._

Its application had been meant to demoralize its receiver in the worst way possible, while still insuring that it was both visible at most times and remained intact should any injuries or dismemberment occur.

The edges were too defined to have not been cleaned up with the liberal application of some sort of filleting knife - whoever had applied it was of a proud disposition, wanting their sigil to appear as clear as possible.

Infection and the disruption of normal human healing processes had marred the skin around it. 

Now grinding his teeth, he looked closer at the brand, acid burning in his chest.

The stylized ridges adorning the crown of the skull. 

The suggestion of a forehead crystal.

The fanged dentition.

The dagger-like facial markings.

Unmistakably, the face of a Mahjarrat.

And, there was only one Mahjarrat who kept living slaves. Fight slaves, to be precise. Finley had mentioned him herself, for the benefit of Ali’s research.

_Khazard._

***

_“Khazard.”_

_“Ah, yes, the youngest of these ‘Mahjarrat,’ according to Zemouregal’s notes. Is there anything in particular I should note about him from your experience?”_

_“Aye. He’s a right bastard, that’s what he is. I ran into after leaving Rellekka - he’d been trying to force a man and his son into some sport-fighting affair. Big arena, lots of chained-up creatures and people meant to kill, or be killed, for what’d pass as amusement to only the most pish-headed, sludge-drinking, hell-bound scunner-folk this world could vomit out.”_

_“Ah, well. I’ll be sure to write that down, I suppose.”_

_“Do. Oh, and write down that I gave him a good clobber ‘cross the skull for what he did, will ye?”_

_“I shall, indeed. In fact, I’ll underline it.”_

***

“Khazard,” he hissed.

“Aye.” Finley quickly re-tied her tunic and hugged her arms to herself again. “He didn’t just grab Justin and Jeremy. He got me, too. Didn’t mention that before - didn’t want to.”

“How long?” Ali’s voice stripped his throat, his hand now balled into a fist around his scarf. “How long did he keep you?”

“Fifty-two days.” 

_She had been counting._

Ali sighed, nearly every nerve of his being firing, telling him to do something, _anything._

_Healing magic?_ It wouldn’t do much at this stage, the brand being healed now, but perhaps it would mangle the image of Khazard’s face.

_Surgery?_ Skin grafts were risky, even with thaumaturgical assistance, but possible.

_Retribution?_ He could, very easily, snap Khazard’s neck, crush his forehead gem, scatter the powdered bones of his lackeys to the winds, and burn every trace of that damnable fight arena so that no slave would suffer there again.

Yet, those courses of action, especially the latter, would draw undue attention. And, more worryingly, the ire of Khazard’s allies. 

Hazeel.

Zemouregal. 

Possibly, Lucien.

_And then, all he had worked for would be for naught._

He would have to wait.

For now.

For now, he settled for standing and returning his chair to its rightful place before turning to the liquor shelf. 

Though his skin itched to tear, to reveal the bones underneath, to release what he had kept hidden for so long, now, he held himself back, this time reaching for a bottle of whiskey. Pouring two nips, he handed one to Finley and began to nurse the other, slowly calming himself with each sip.

“Ali. Can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, you may.”

“What should I tell Adrius?” Finley’s voice was tired, hoarse. Ali turned to look at her - she had already downed her whiskey and was slouched over in the chair, hands tangled in her still-damp braids.

“The truth, if you think he can handle it. If not?” He smirked, despite himself. “Tell him to shave that unsightly stubble from his chin. The boy can’t grow a beard to save his life, and perhaps he should stop trying before he ends up looking like a mangy fox.”

“Aye, wait-” Finley shot him a look, face screwed up into a half-scowl. “What’s that got to do with scars and nightmares and all that keech?”

“Nothing much, unless you spin it, but at least it takes the focus off of you for the time being.” He glanced toward the door - the sunlight streaming in from the window had flickered slightly. “And it’s not a lie. Adrius really could do with a bit of facial manicuring.”

The door swung inward, an already redder-looking Adrius shuffling inside.

“I gave the thing to Awusah, just like you demanded,” he grumbled, throwing himself gracelessly back onto the bed.

“Thank you,” Ali replied, smiling and placing his hands behind his back in a slight bow. “You’ve been a wonderful help today, Adrius.” Hearing Adrius grunt in response, he turned back to Finley, quirking an eyebrow.

She, in turn, glanced between him and the bed, eventually nodding and waving him toward the door.

Returning her nod, Ali clasped her shoulder and squeezed before collecting some items from his desk and slipping outside as quietly as he could manage. Just before turning north to find a private place to light his pipe, he paused, looking back inside.

Finley had moved to Adrius’ bedside and was helping him to sit upright, motioning to her chest with her free hand and speaking in a low, measured tone. Ali didn’t need to listen in on her words to know what the topic was.

Some strange, human emotion welled within him. Was is satisfaction? Guilt? Frustration? Or a garbled, incomprehensible mix of all three?

_When will you tell them?_

_When will you tell her?_

He sighed, running a hand through his beard, and shook his head.

At least content that his work was now truly done for the day, he strode off through the sand, preparing his pipe.


End file.
